The House of Lyall (17 page)

The bleating of sheep made them turn round, and coming towards them Marianne saw a man with a black and white collie keeping the sheep together. The dog hesitated, obviously wondering if he should take a closer look at the strangers, then decided to ignore them, but the man tipped his flat bonnet and called, ‘A braw day, Maister!'

Hamish responded in the manner of the glen. ‘It is that, Fenton. You've met my wife, of course? Marianne, this is Fenton, one of our shepherds.'

Overcome with shyness, the man whipped off his flat cap. ‘I saw you at the …' he mumbled, stopping short of mentioning the funeral, and began again. ‘I saw you at your wedding, and I'm verra pleased to meet you, m'Leddy.'

Embarrassed at being given the title, but unwilling to make things worse by putting him right, the only thing she could do was to hold out her hand. ‘I'm very pleased to meet you, and all, Mr Fenton.'

This served to panic him altogether. His fingers hovered briefly over hers, then he gave a sharp nod and turned, sprinting away from them to catch up with those with whom he felt most comfortable, his dog and his sheep.

‘Did I do something wrong, Hamish?' she asked anxiously. ‘Should I have told him …? I shouldn't have let him call me m'Lady, should I?'

Her husband smiled patiently. ‘What do you want them to call you? Mrs Bruce-Lyall is quite a mouthful, and they want you to be their Lady, even if I'm not the Lord … the laird, as they say. There is no Lady Glendarril now … Let them call you Lady Marianne if they want to.'

‘He was shocked at me for wanting to shake hands with him, though. Did your mother never …?'

‘My mother was a stickler for protocol and she considered that our workers and their wives were on this earth for the sole purpose of serving her. She would have died rather than shake hands with any of them.' He paused, realizing the irony of what he had said, then went on, ‘They respected her and held her in awe, but I believe we should not set ourselves above them, for we are all the same in the eyes of God. I do think, however, that we will have to be careful not to let them be too familiar with us, Marianne. Not only would they lose their awe of us, we would lose their respect as well. We shall have to walk a very thin line.'

She gave him a nodding smile as if she understood, yet she had not quite grasped his meaning. It was going to be difficult to know the difference between being friendly and being too familiar.

On one of their morning rambles, they came across a small hut in the depths of a dense mass of trees. Marianne was intrigued by its position, almost hidden from view. ‘Would this be where the charcoal burners live? I've read about them in history books.'

Hamish gave a gurgling laugh. ‘As far as I am aware, there never were any charcoal burners here. This is a still. For distilling whisky,' he explained, seeing her puzzlement. ‘My grandfather used to tell us stories about the tricks his workers got up to to save the excisemen from finding their stock of illicit whisky. He always said his men were doing no wrong, for they were not making the spirits to sell, only for their own use – and for his, he always laughed – so they should not have to pay tax or duty on it. It hasn't been used for years.'

‘It would be against the law these days, wouldn't it?'

Hamish guffawed this time. ‘It was against the law in the old days, too. If they had been found out, the men could have been hanged, or at least dispatched to Botany Bay for ever.'

‘Yes, the penal colony,' she agreed. ‘I've read about that, too.'

The days passed agreeably, and Marianne found herself if not exactly happy, at least settled.

In spite of his father's professed wish for the next heir to be born before he died, Hamish had still not attempted to make a son, but Marianne was quite content with the way her life was shaping, and she was certainly getting to know Hamish better, his likes and his dislikes.

By the end of that first week, her husband had introduced her to most of the folk in the glen, smilingly accepting the title they bestowed on her. It was as if they had discussed it together and decided to so honour her, although they were bound to know she wasn't a ‘Lady' in the true sense. Carnie would have told them how little she'd had when she arrived here, or if not Carnie – Marianne had the feeling that he'd be fiercely loyal to the Bruce-Lyall family – certainly the railway employee at the station. They had probably tumbled to the fact that she didn't speak like gentry and maybe that was why they were so warm towards her. She was one of them.

What pleased her most, was when Hamish began to confide in her about how he would like the mill to be run. ‘Father's so old-fashioned he can't see that we need to change things. Our spinning machines and looms must have been there since machinery was invented, and the new models are faster and easier to work, so they would pay for themselves in no time. But he won't listen. “What's the point of getting rid of things that still work perfectly well?” That's his attitude. And I keep telling him we should enlarge the buildings so that we can increase our output, but he can't see that either.'

‘Maybe he feels you don't have enough people to cope with the extra work,' Marianne ventured, a little timidly because she knew nothing of the workings of a woollen mill.

‘We could build more houses and employ more workers. He is well known all over Scotland for being a fair man, a good master paying decent wages, not like some owners, so there would be dozens of men wanting to be taken on. And their women would help the shepherds' wives with the hand-knitted garments. Plus, if I had my way, I'd install running water in every cottage – not that Father ignores the upkeep of the houses. All the workers, and even the crofters, are encouraged to let the factor know if anything needs to be repaired, but they need to have some sanitation. It can't be very nice not to have an inside WC, and in some cases not even one outside.'

Having been brought up in an old cottage in the last category, Marianne knew that those who were accustomed to it thought nothing of having a dry lavatory, and her thoughts took a different turn. ‘You know, Hamish, it might be a good idea to employ somebody to look after the very young children so women who wanted to earn some extra money could work in the mill.'

Hamish shook his head. ‘My father would never countenance that.' His sigh was deep and long. ‘Anyway, Marianne, I was just being silly, building castles in the air …'

‘Not castles,' she laughed. ‘Just houses to go with the castle.'

He ignored her attempt to cheer him. ‘It's no use. He will never agree to that, either, nor any of the other things I want to do.'

The assurance which sprang to her mind that he would be able to do what he liked when
he
was laird remained unsaid, but it hung in the air between them for the rest of that day.

Their ‘honeymoon' over, it was time for Hamish to start work again, and once he and his father left for the mill, Marianne thought she had better get to know the layout of the castle as her father-in-law had said, looking at things in more detail. She had been so scared of upsetting Lady Glendarril that she hadn't dared to take more than a cursory glance at any room until now. She decided to start with the ground floor, and went into the entrance hall, but she just had time to notice the row of hooks above the oak chest opposite the front door when the housekeeper came out of the dining room. Miss Glover, whom the new mistress found quite intimidating, was a wraithlike figure dressed entirely in black. She seemed to glide as if she were on casters, silent and unsmiling, terrifyingly forbidding.

‘The hooks are for hanging overcoats, ma'am,' she said, her thin mouth forming each word in a way that made her prominent teeth even more prominent. She bent over and lifted the lid of the chest. ‘Overshoes and boots are kept in here … and the guns, of course, in the grouse season.'

‘I see, thank you.' Marianne guessed that the house-keeper had been instructed to show her round and explain things to her, and even if she would have preferred to look at things on her own, it wouldn't be policy to antagonize the woman. ‘The kist's the same wood as the door, isn't it?' she asked, for the sake of something to say.

‘The
chest
is oak, ma'am, the same as the door … which is restricted to his Lordship, his family and their guests,' she added, in a hushed tone, as if she were speaking about God and His angels.

Marianne determined not to be needled, though the woman evidently didn't include her new mistress in the hallowed company by the tone of her voice. ‘The white painted walls give a nice welcome to guests, and the sanded floor's so highly polished …'

‘The floor has never been sanded, ma'am.' There was a ring of pride in what she was saying now. ‘It was recorded by his Lordship's grandfather that it had been scraped with broken glass until it took on this fine sheen. Do you see how it reflects the colours from the windows on the staircases, ma'am?'

And so it went on. The secrets of the huge sideboard in the dining room – it took up the whole of one wall – were laid bare to Marianne; the delicate bone-china dinner and tea services and where they had come from; the beautiful silver cutlery in one of the drawers, some with the family crest on the handles, some monogrammed with just a fancy letter L, which, Miss Glover revealed, meant that they had been in the Lyall family even before Marjorie Bruce married into it.

‘That was about the middle of the eighteenth century, and she was a direct descendant of King Robert the Bruce, and was named after his daughter, which is why the king of the time granted the family the right to be known as Bruce-Lyall, and the Lord Lyon, King of Arms, approved a new crest.'

Another drawer held silver serving utensils, and a third contained starched damask napkins with the initials B and L embroidered in white to match the tablecloths in the fourth drawer.

The housekeeper reeled off details of the furniture next, the oval table and ten high-backed chairs with tapestry seats, and the carvers to match, one at either end. ‘It took three generations of Bruce-Lyall women to finish all the stitching,' she divulged.

‘They're absolutely wonderful, though,' Marianne murmured, hoping that she wouldn't be expected to fill her spare time in the same way. Surprisingly, considering how long she had lived with the Rennie sisters, she hated sewing and had never been any good at it.

‘As you can see, ma'am,' Miss Glover continued, ‘there are numerous small tables, all darkest mahogany like the rest of the furniture in here, for trays to be set down on, or platters of vegetables to be rested on if the dining table is full.'

While the housekeeper gave details of the portraits on the walls, Marianne, having already studied them while having meals here when Lady Glendarril was alive, turned her attention to the Indian carpet square on the floor. It was almost threadbare in places, the pattern scarcely showing. That would be the first entry she would make in the notebook she was intending to keep, she thought – ‘See about new dining room carpet.'

The business room, as Miss Glover said it was originally called, was used by Lord Glendarril as a study. To the right of and very close to the fireplace stood a beautiful desk which had belonged to his father, who had been inclined to feel the cold, and his own desk sat in front of the window to afford him more light. Near the door was a desk with four seats at it, which Miss Glover said was the ‘rent' desk, where the tenant farmers came once a year to pay their ten-shilling rents to the factor. The floor here was of pine, deeper in colour than usual because of years, maybe centuries, of beeswax polish applied by perspiring young girls, and had a scattering of small rugs to protect it in the most used areas.

The library fascinated Marianne, two of its walls completely lined with shelves from floor to ceiling, some filled with volumes covered in red leather, some with dark blue covers, some linen covers, all of which looked as if they had seldom, if ever, been read, though not one speck of dust could be seen anywhere. On the shelves on the other two walls, on either side of the fireplace and bay window, were books which had obviously been well-leafed – novels, biographies of the famous and not-so-famous, autobiographies, children's and adults' classics. She had never seen so many books and it dawned on her that here was a wealth of reading that would help her improve her still lamentably poor vocabulary – if she got any time to read, that was. She wasn't too keen on the plaster – or alabaster or whatever – busts, which were placed haphazardly anywhere there was room for them.

‘The bronzes are celebrated composers,' her guide supplied, seeing her looking at them, ‘and the ivories are famous authors.'

Then they entered the Blue Room, most used of any of the public rooms, where the furnishing fabrics were all in some shade of blue, not really to Marianne's taste because it made the room look cold. The chairs here were upholstered in a rough material which felt like hessian but the housekeeper said was hopsack made in the mill – ‘A not altogether successful experiment,' she added. Noting the fading and the neat, but still noticeable, patches over what must be worn parts, Marianne could only agree with this, and make re-covering the chairs another of the early jobs to be done. As they left the room, Miss Glover drew her attention to three miniatures on the wall above a whatnot.

‘Lady Glendarril's mother, grandmother and great-grandmother,' she observed, pointing to each one in turn. ‘His Lordship did not like them and wanted to take them down, but she held out against him. I am surprised, though, that he has not removed them by this time.'

Marianne had guessed that they were ancestors of Lady Glendarril; they all had the same sour faces and flared nostrils, as if somebody was holding a lump of dog's dirt under them, and if her father-in-law didn't take them down
soon, Marianne would do it for him. Luckily, she kept her thoughts to herself. Whatever she did when she started making the alterations she wanted, she was bound to upset somebody, so this was another fine line she'd have to walk.